Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Sat Aug 26, 2017 5:22 pm

Somewhere along the eastern seaboard of the US, in a nondescript office of a trading company (used as a front for the British Secretory of Foreign Affairs operating in those United States - presently united is used loosely - of North America). A codded telegraph message is decoded an passed to the office manager/station chief

A young, but tired eyed, British spy road from Springfield Illinois. Eyes searching the surrounding country side for enemies (that were not there) and for beckoning shadows (that are nearly ever-present).

The shadows drew him to them, promising comfort, protection and power, but he knew the darkness they were made of, and the nightmares they contained. He prayed that for one more night, at least, the shadow nightmares would let him rest in peace.

Unknowingly, he pulled his hat lower over his eyes to block the harsh sun, pulled his travel coat closer, and trotted on toward ...

***The shadow eyed Englishman followed the 2 other agents he was ordered to assist and protect through the muddy Chicago streets, toward the overcrowded fair grounds. Worried, this would be a perfect place for an ambush or anarchist attack. At least in Chicago, he isn’t worried about a Turkish bullet or an Arab knife from the crowd in the back. Also, at least everyone (well nearly everyone) in the teeming mass of people spoke English instead of the 100 various near east heathen jabbering languages …

They wondered through the crowd, stopping here and there when something caught the Swiss/English Watchmaker’s eyes. The entire time Roger quietly watched the crowd for hidden dangers .

Soon enough, the 3 found the young man Roger hoped to recruit. The son of an Irish immigrant to Americas (Irish … well not everyone can be perfect and blessedly English), A Marine who had served America in the Near East, on a team Roger himself had given information to inured to hamper Muslim pirating of Western shipping, and to cause trouble for the dammed Turks and Egyptians.

Standing in front of a booth of a ‘Mystic Faith Healer’ watching a crippled slight wisp of a girl, and the greedy mouse faced huckster calling out to the crowd to sell them the story of her “God Blessed miracles of wonder and healing short of only Paul, Peter …”

That blue suited …. Handle bar mustache … I know him …

2 rubes stepped from the crowd, one stabbed in a recent mugging (maybe this Chicago World’s Fair is no safer than a Syrian back ally market square after all) and an other one with a leg crushed and improperly set.

A finely dressed lady stepped from beside her exceptionally dressed father, and helped the injured up to the ‘healer’ one at a timeThe act continues and the blood stops leaking from the knife wound and the lame stepped up and walked with nary a limp.

The lame healer stumbles back ‘exhausted’ , the wealthy Miss helper leaning in the support her …

]“Gentleman!” ... “Will no one assist these mademoiselles in distress?” ... Followed by a whispered ‘C’est la vie. … French, the blue suited mustached monsieur is French … I know him… He climbs up to the platform to help the 2 ladies.

The greasy eyed huckster glanced around (nearly hiding his surprise) and warped up his act.

I’m not perfect, but I would swear this wasn’t an act … It must be, and a world class act at that. Lame healer, wealthy (and attractive) helper, easy to fake injured, and a hero to help them off the stage before anyone can look too close.

Standing next to the young Irish man “They would have been useful in those dammed Turkish sands”

A quick flash of recognition crosses the prior Marine’s face when he focuses on the English officer he last saw in the Middle East sands across the canal from Egypt …

***A good first night, a lot of discussion of the character’s powers backgrounds etc. Some modification of backgrounds and talk about the rules.Next game, more into the meat of the adventure

***

Again, don't consider this just MY version of the story, jump in and add your version of the games !

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Aug 31, 2017 4:43 pm

Jacque Frost at the Fair, pt 1

***Jean's PoV!

The thunder of hooves took Jean Claude back in time. He no longer saw the mock cowboys and Indians racing through the arena of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. No, he saw the flash of steel, heard the thunder of hussars around him, the boom of cannon in the distance, and saw the white snows of Russia, churned with mud and flecked with blood. Shaking himself out of the memory, the dapper Frenchman stood and left the show, making his way through the crowd of Americans desperate to relive this small myth of their recent past.

Jean was done with myths. The myths that promised a young man glory on the fields of battle. Myths that a great leader actually cared about his men, the troops he blithely sent to war against the Prussians, the Austrians, the English, the Spanish….and the Russians. No, Jean Claude du Orleans, late lieutenant of the Grande Armee’s Young Guard, had enough of myths.

The Frenchman, looking far younger than his years, left the sound of cavalry behind and walked towards the 1893 Worlds Columbian Exposition; America’s response to the 1889 Exposition in Paris. His steps quickened as he mocked his own cynicism. ‘Done with myths, Jean Claude?’

He silently mocked his own attitude? Then why do you encase yourself in the armour of ice and put paid to villainy?’ He snorted with amusement. Jean Claude might be done with memories of glory in war, but now he sought glory in other combats. Or did he? Perhaps he was simply hoping that one day something would finish him off from his years of despair. Like that creature who emerged from the icy gate a lifetime ago. In his bones Jean felt that the monstrous form within the living snowstorm would come again, and claim his soul for its own.

Shrugging the maudlin thoughts aside, the young-seeming Frenchman loitered past the court of honor, a grandiose name for what amounted to a outdoor foyer, and strolled the lanes. His eye was caught by the incongruous scene of a American preacher shouting to passersby about the healing power of Faith…young Miss Faith that is. His atheism from the days of the revolution still held him in its grip, despite the things he’d seen. Yet he was amused at how an American could sell anything, clothing, horses, and now even God. He stopped to observe the healing of the sick by a young woman nearly immobilized by some affliction. ‘If she was so powerful at healing’ he thought with asperity ‘…then why didn’t she heal herself?’

Yet the act was curiously effective. It did almost seem as if Miss Faith and the young woman from the crowd who assisted the ailing to Faith’s healing touch were actually healing injuries. The men pretending to disability were very good actors. Jean Claude had seen injured men aplenty, and there was a bearing that the wounded had that was difficult for any actor to perform; much as when someone actually saw a dead man no living actor could fool them again.

The ladies continued their act, then with a convenient fainting spell Miss Faith had to be helped off the stage, again by the lovely young woman at her side. Strangely, neither the huckster pastor nor anyone in the crowd made any attempt to assist the women.

“Gentleman!” Jean Claude shouted before he could stop himself. “Will no one assist these ladies in distress?” Once again, his mouth and antique ideas of honour had gotten him in a fix. ‘C’est la vie.’ He thought wryly to himself as he moved upon the stage to assist the ladies in stepping down to the street.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Aug 31, 2017 8:29 pm

Awesome! Thanks, guys! This will help me develop the adventure going forward, as well as help us all recall what has gone before. I find it a big help when my players do these kind of write ups for inspiration on how to go forward. The more perspectives I get, the more inspiration I can find.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Aug 31, 2017 11:00 pm

DMMike wrote:***Jean's PoV!

...

The ladies continued their act, then with a convenient fainting spell Miss Faith had to be helped off the stage, again by the lovely young woman at her side. Strangely, neither the huckster pastor nor anyone in the crowd made any attempt to assist the women.

“Gentleman!” Jean Claude shouted before he could stop himself. “Will no one assist these ladies in distress?” Once again, his mouth and antique ideas of honour had gotten him in a fix. ‘C’est la vie.’ He thought wryly to himself as he moved upon the stage to assist the ladies in stepping down to the street.

…to be continued!

Sorry I miss quoted you in mine, but I had to have some way to tie it into you being French in my write up ...

I'll fix it (a bit) in mine.

Hmmm what are my friend and family back home going to think when they find out I'm working with a Frenchman and an Irishman ...

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Mon Sep 04, 2017 6:43 am

POV: Ms. Elizabeth Matthews

May 1st 1893, Chicago, World's Columbian Exposition

Though I must maintain my composure, I will confess I am as excited about the Exposition as the children who run along the fair grounds. I feel that I am in a rather unique position as a woman in that I am educated enough to understand the theories behind the technological wonders on display here. Though I certainly can't discuss such things openly with any of the pioneers of the inventions, I am thankful to be able to stand by my fathers side and listen to them explain things to him in greater detail than the usual passer-by. They are all too happy to express how their wonderful creations work in the hope that my father will put in a good word with his benefactors. While I enjoy everything I am learning today it is important that I remember that I am only here to see, and be seen. Inventors will doubtlessly be fawning over us for months here as long as we make the appropriate ambiguous assurances.

This is also one of the few chances I have to be seen in the same capacity as "proper" ladies, a reassurance as the fleet of journalists attending the Exposition rarely bother with subtlety as they take note of my father and I's presence. It will be a much better headline than usual I assure myself, "Notable Doctor and scandalous daughter alike enjoy the Fair!". I smile prettily and focus on keeping our outing as boring for the tabloids as possible, caught up in the displays and explanations my father gathers.

We approach the outer lying exhibits of the fair row sooner than we thought we would, and take a much needed breath of relief as the crowds noticeably lessen. Only one stage seems to draw any crowds here and my father and I approach. "Faith Healer!" the handmade banner proclaims, peddling illustrations of a petite woman, portrayed in sympathy inducing straits. Her outfit is homely to say the least, outdated, and in poor but passable repair, but what the crowd notes most about her are the braces on her legs. "Likely due to Polio," I think to myself, already proposing potential diagnosis though I do not know why. I wonder, if given enough time, would I be able to reverse the condition of her limbs with my power?

Perhaps that is something Asklepios would be able to achieve. "Or," I think to myself, "she is just a part of the act and her condition is a ruse." A man who introduces himself as Orville begins, a remarkable showman, it is no surprise he somehow managed to procure a stage so close to the fair. As Orville gives his performance my father leans over to me and whispers, "You know, there is the real possibility that some faith healers are actually able to do what they claim now. At least if any of them have been affected by The Event. Still exceptionally rare, but it's amusing to ponder on it." I think over what it could mean if this faith healer was the real deal. It made me wonder why she had not healed herself, why she still lived in such an environment if she had such a gift, surely she could be doing at least a little better for herself.

"I'll find out if she is legitimate then." I whispered back decidedly, my mind now ablaze with questions. Mr. Orville asked for volunteers and injured from the crowd, and two men came forward. One a mugging victim who still had knife wounds that could use treatment and the other man a worker who had his leg badly broken from factory equipment. Orville called up the Knife victim first. I seized the opportunity and went to help the man up to the stage, trying my best to seem like a helpful bystander and not much more. Together, the man and I approached the woman known as Faith, who promised to remove his pain. I adjusted my grip on his arm to touch the bare skin of his wrist, letting my gift echo through his frame, revealing to me the extent of his injuries and any effect this woman may have on them if her claims were legitimate.

Faith and Orville continued their routine, working the crowd up for to the climax of the performance. Finally Faith reached out her hand to the man and proclaimed for the crowd to witness the power of God. With my gift, I could 'see' the wound close substantially as Faith called upon the Powers that Be. The wound stopped healing before it was completely closed, but her affect was undeniable. Faith turned away and continued to work the crowd, and seeing the opportunity to help I continued the process of healing the man. I prevented myself from reacting to the pain of his wounds as they closed completely and he stood a bit straighter, pulling his arm away from me and working his shoulder as he realized he was relieved of all pain. He presented his completely healed wounds to the crowd, sharing his amazement and gratitude. Faith looked back at him with a smile that only slightly faltered as she realized his wound was now completely closed. She looked to me with a slightly suspicious gaze before regaining her composure and using the unexpected result to raise the spirit of the event even further.

As I quickly went to help the next man with the horribly injured leg up to the stage I couldn't help but think of the possibilities for my fathers practice if Faith could come work for us. The possibility of my father having someone else to help with his practice was intoxicating, and then there was the potentiality for Faith's life to improve as well. I thought of the chance we would have to help repair her legs, of giving her an income that would allow her to wear clothes in good repair. Then, beyond all that, was the curious thought that maybe it could mean that my Father wouldn't be forced to rely on me so much. The act continued, and Faith turned once more back toward me and the injured man I helped stand, her hand outstretched. I could audibly hear the cracking of the mans bones mending themselves back together, and "see" the flesh mending where bone had previously pierced through it. I decided to help a bit more but I wasn't able to do much before I saw Faith begin to collapse. Grateful for the excuse to separate myself from sharing the pain of the mans previously broken leg I immediately went to catch her.

She was surprisingly light as I partially caught her weight, Faith still able to partly hold herself up. I began to help her toward the backstage when I heard a man with a thick accent call out to the crowd “Gentleman! Will no one assist these ladies in distress?”. There was a brief pause before a well groomed man in a blue suit took Faith's other arm, easing some of her weight. I thank him before we disappear behind the curtain, leaving the crowd behind and I toward what I hope is a brighter future for Faith.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Sep 07, 2017 8:44 pm

Lurker wrote:

DMMike wrote:***Jean's PoV!

...

The ladies continued their act, then with a convenient fainting spell Miss Faith had to be helped off the stage, again by the lovely young woman at her side. Strangely, neither the huckster pastor nor anyone in the crowd made any attempt to assist the women.

“Gentleman!” Jean Claude shouted before he could stop himself. “Will no one assist these ladies in distress?” Once again, his mouth and antique ideas of honour had gotten him in a fix. ‘C’est la vie.’ He thought wryly to himself as he moved upon the stage to assist the ladies in stepping down to the street.

…to be continued!

Sorry I miss quoted you in mine, but I had to have some way to tie it into you being French in my write up ...

I'll fix it (a bit) in mine.

Hmmm what are my friend and family back home going to think when they find out I'm working with a Frenchman and an Irishman ...

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Tue Sep 12, 2017 2:27 am

Dear Diary,

A most singular day! I have found myself simultaneously liberated and indentured in the space of moments. I have met a wondrous person with abilities similar to my own. I dared not dream there were others, and thought myself an abomination. There is, I am told, a contract involved. I should like to read it one day, but I fear it would not be allowed. Dare I dream I have found a truly kindred spirit?

I feel like rejoicing aloud! O! wondrous Fate! She has finally changed the warp and weft of the tapestry which sings of my pathetic life.

The look in Orville's eyes chilled me to my very core. My new friends and benefactors believe that whatever sum assigned to my life's worth was sufficient to break the terrible bond that kept us together, but I know Mr. Whitman very well and it is important that I am counted as his possession. Power means as much to him as does this filthy lucre.

Could it be true, that tomorrow I will no longer be required to work in the revival tent, giving hope to the hopeless that even I cannot cure, praying to a god in whom I do not truly believe.

There were many strange individuals attending my feinted faint. I heard them speak aloud of things I wish I had not heard. I believe it possible that every soul in possession of these wondrous abilities was gathered within 30 feet of me this day.

I agreed to be a healer, in the employ of my new benefactor, but I believe there may be other things at play here. I wonder what will be asked of me?

Employ! One such as me, a woman, reliant on crutches, poorly educated, with 23 pennies to my miserable name, with what sounds like a respectable and honest position with a wealthy family! I dare not even close my eyes, lest when I open them anew I find this dream world has fled and I am once again resigned to Mr. Whitman's abuses.

I have so many question, but I will not give them voice, as no one has asked me and it would be prideful to believe they would be interested in hearing me speak.

I am here at the Chicago World's Fair, and though my tormentor is near, I feel for once that my horizons are as exotic and wondrous as the exhibits and people populating this singular moment in time and space.

Your devoted chronicler, Faith

p.s.

My little blue friend is coming with us! So tolerant of our afflictions, these new guardians are the very saints themselves!

p.p.s.

In our fantastic entourage there is one who admonished an attendant for using French! I shall have to be careful. I used the word entourage! I already sound like a Gaul; I should keep my counsel then and figuratively stitch my lips together lest I utter a word that spoils this moment.

p.p.p.s.

We went to a real butcher's shop and Miss ordered whatever we wanted, and didn't even need to do any sums before she did so. I offered to make gruel, but I made a fool of myself, of course it's not what she eats. She even gave the butcher more money than he asked for. He was most devoted afterwards!

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Sep 13, 2017 2:03 am

Somewhere along the eastern seaboard of the US, in the same old nondescript office of a trading company (used as a front for the British Secretory of Foreign Affairs operating in those United States - presently united is used loosely - of North America). A codded telegraph message is decoded an passed to the office manager/station chief

The secretary to the Right Honorable … the Secretary of North American branch of The Secretory of Foreign Affairs frowned. … Scima/ Mosby ... 4 lines to his report and most ‘need money’ … that Roger Mosby whelp of a pup was trouble in the Ottoman region and may become a problem here in these American States … He dutifully carried the report to the local director

Sometime in the near future – the time it takes a steamer to make the Atlantic crossing, an older Mosby brother frowned down at the letter from his younger brother – in political and social exile in the wilds of America.

The letter, to the common reader, looked nothing more than a letter from a brother abroad to his more settled and older brother. However, in this family, with nobles, soldiers, and spies for the last 5 generations, it was more troubling … order to murder a foreign diplomat, general , of a sovereign congenital country, in this time of a tender keg ready to explode into war … from the Home Office of the Secretory of Foreign Affairs, or an underling in the North American office … troubling, unacceptable. The older Mosby sat his tea down and crossed Whitehall street to the Home Office … Archibald may be fool enough to sanction this, but there are enough Gascoyne men in the office to get answers for Mosby. Even relitative and cousins in the office would be forthcoming. If any of the Redcliff, Brundell, or Somerse’s are involved, heads will roll … The Mosby’s may not be of the highest order, but with generations of service, and with ties to families of the bluest blood they are not a family to be trifled with.

***

Roger shook the Irish man’s hand and clapped his shoulder, and started to quip about history, the Irish and the queen’s gold. Before he could breathe a word of the joke, he noticed the 2 ladies, actors they had to be actors, emerge from the alley beside/ the booth stage they so recently ‘performed healings ‘ on, and an older gentleman – he too is familiar, an American Dr with his picture splashed across the society pages of the local paper – followed the two than worked his way to take the arm of the well-dressed Miss. … a family resemblance, … father and daughter … probably … … interesting . … Then the blue suited Frenchman … I KNOW HIM …. Stepped from the alley headed the other way.

“You take Her Majesty’s gold, you have a job. See that blue suited mustached Frenchman, follow him. Find where he is staying”

The Irishman blinked in surprise at the abrupt order and slid into the crowed behind the Frenchman.

The British spy slid into the crowd following the Frenchman himself.

As he walked into the crowed the British automaton mumbled, … orders, … the general, … the German general … and walked into the crowed …

None noticed a strange fellow, coated despite the season’s warmth, slide from the alley shadows and follow the two Misses and the one’s father.

The Irishman and the English noble followed the Frenchman 10, 15 min successfully. Stopping here wandering there, simply taking in the sights and wonders of the Chicago Fair. Then … the Frenchman noticed something, a quick skillful slide into an alley way .

Roger nodded to Liam to follow, and the stepped into the beckoning shadows … ghostlike he shadow walks to the street across from the alley way and hides in the shadow watching.

The Frenchman, sure he is being followed, emerges from the alley and leans into a nook of a booth wall and calmly watches the Irishman walk past .

20 feet later the Irish former marine notices his target is nowhere in sight … stopping dead in his tracks looking for the Frenchman. Soon enough he turns and see him there in the shadow . The Frenchman tips his hat and smiles.

The embarrassed Liam turns and walks on, now followed by the Frenchman. Just as the blue suited Frenchman steps out to follow , he noticed a strange shadowed figure, in a place there should have been no shadows . Knowing he had been glanced, Scima/Roger grimaced, waited till the Frenchman followed the Irishman, and then stepped from the shadows following him as he followed Liam .

Spying is no easy task even for those well trained and battle tested . If it was easy, there would be more in the ole codger’s homes, and fewer in unmarked graves …

After less than a hour, the Frenchman grew bored with following the Irishman, and slipped into the crowed.

Roger worked his way to the down cast Irishman, not a word, but a friendly clap on the back … and the 2 headed to the local safe house.

There the two met the British Construct – Galahad - and the ’watch maker’ . The automaton explained he received an order from The Secretory of Foreign Affairs Home Office – Kill General Alcide Rodin, a French General, using his ‘unique’ powers, powers to control the mind. The General is giving speeches here at the World’s Fair. Assassination ... The English nobleman/spy frowned.

Galahad went on to explain that he listened to the General through the evening and saw no proof of unique powers, mind control, or any other justification for the order to murder the general. Good oration, yes, unabashed use of historic speeches without a doubt, but no super human hypnotism,

Roger/Scima, A noble British man always, loyal without doubt, a spy when luck and skill allows, but an assassin … never.

Mumbling about Turkish orders, Roger plans with the others … someone in the North American department of the Foreign Secretary’s office may have been compromised, or unsanctioned orders passed – or we are being used as scape goat the noble thought to himself – What ever the problem was, he would not murder not in a time of peace or without a truly just cause.

We will watch the General, see if there is something to support the orders, but also assume that if the local department was compromised, others would also be trying to kill the German General, so we may need to try and prevent it, and at the same time figure other the secret behind the secret.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Sep 13, 2017 3:08 am

After Fraulein Finney's near colapse on the stage today, she was bought from Herr Whitman by a doctor and his daughter.

As she left the show in the company of her new masters, I feared for her. She is frail and innocent and has been my only true friend. I followed them through the Fair and the city to a large spacious home. It took me several, long minutes to gather my courage to approach the door, but finally, my concern for Fraulein Finney moved me to knock. The young Fraulein answered the door. She must be of stout character; she did not flinch at my appearance, as most people do.

I made bold and asked f I may speak with Fraulein Finney. The daughter admitted me to the house as she scanned the streets intently. Such lavishment I have not seen since I preformed for the Kaiser. Fraulin Matthews showed genuine concern for Fraulein Finney's well being as she showed me to the parlor. I took this as a hopeful sign.

Fraulein Finney meet me in there and exclaimed that she was to "work" with Herr Doctor and the daughter healing the sick and would be able to buy her "contract" at some future date.

Fraulein Finney them showed her kind and noble heart by pleading with Fraulein Matthews to let me stay the night, as this was a strange place to her and I was a comfort and a friend. Fraulein Matthews left to speak with Herr Doctor.

When they returned, Herr Doctor was startled and distraught by my demonic demeanor, as most people are, but Fraulein Matthews beseeched her father, and I used my best preforming abilities to put him at his ease. After several strained moments, Herr Doctor relaxed and permitted me to spend the evening with Fraulein Finney. He magnanimously gave me the use a room for dignified guests. I responded by giving Herr Doctor my best flourishing bow, as I had once done for the Kaiser.

Fraulein Matthews then suggested that we dine. Fraulein Finney offered to make gruel. Fraulein Matthews said that she would procure meat and prepare a meal for us with her own hands. I was honored.

Fraulin Matthews showed me to my room personally and then the two young Frauleins left to make arrangements at the butchers. I was duty bound to follow and protect the innocents. The butcher was but a short distance, however, I did notice a man surreptitiously following the Frauleins. I soon determined that he was not a threat, but kept a watchful eye on him until the Frauleins returned to the home.

******I had intended to post something earlier today, but got busy at work and didn't have time.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Sep 13, 2017 4:52 pm

Jacque Frost at the Fair, pt2

Before Jean-Claude D'Orleans really knew what he was doing, he’d leapt upon the stage and was helping the two ladies to the ground behind the stage. The two were quite a pair, one garbed in a dress that could’ve been a Worth creation while the other was clothed in near-rags. Yet chivalry still held a small part of Jean-Claude’s soul, so he helped them down to the street and with a gallant tip of the hat and smile turned and walked around the stage and rejoined the crowd before the Reverend Orville.

That dubious fellow was wrapping up his sermon, being sure to call everyone’s attention to the donation plate on the edge of the stage. Apparently God was omnipotent but needed money. Few took notice of the plate, as everyone’s attention was drawn to a handsome fellow in the congregation, standing as still as a statue. An elderly German doctor fussed around the unmoving man, muttering about reversing a neutron flow or some such. The sight was curious to be sure, but not enough to keep Jean’s attention. With a Gallic shrug, the Frenchman broke away from the crowd and strode slowly down the lane.

After only a few dozen paces, Jean felt eyes upon him. Glancing negligently over his shoulder, he saw a large man dressed in common clothes trying to follow him. He might’ve gone unnoticed, but the man’s eyes were too direct. This man was a soldier, not a rogue or spy. Yet he continued to dog Jean’s steps. Could he be an agent for those fools in the Silver Empire? They’d tried to recruit him in their never-ending war against ‘racial contamination’; whatever THAT was. ‘Like any man, or woman, is pure anything in the cosmopolitan nineteenth century.’ Smiling to himself, he decided to lead this soldier on a chase. He began to move in odd directions, and his shadow kept up with his movements. Not trying to close the distance, just keeping Jean in sight.

With a sudden turn to the right, Jean moved quickly through an alley between the World Mechanics display and the building holding the wares and exhibits of the Brazilian Empire. Once he made it to the end of the alleyway, he skipped slightly to the right and leaned against the wall. He was at the corner, but just out of sight of his pursuer. The soldier kept up his pace, but missed Jean’s post and strode instead to the center of this new lane. He gazed about, his head and eyes moving like a gun turret searching for a target. A bit of bonhomie caught Jean, and he tipped his navy blue bowler hat towards his large pursuer. Flushing with anger, the man simply glared with disgust at the grinning Frenchman and strode off down the lane, back towards the revivalist tent where the chase had begun.

Apparently the soldier didn’t see the humor of the situation. ‘He must be young, the world will soon teach him its great truth; that life is a farce.’ He thought bemusedly to himself. With nothing else to do, Jean turned to follow his angry stalker. Yet something….drew his eye to the far end of the lane. It was another small alleyway, much like the one he’d just left. There were shadows, but one of the shadows stood out as a silhouette against the brickwork. A stray beam of light caused the shadow to flicker and provide Jean the briefest glimpse of a man’s form…watching him. “Apparently I am quite popular today.” Jean said with amusement. He considered tipping his hat to the shadowman as well, but decided to continue his languid pursuit of the soldier instead. After all, he might follow Jean’s progress as well?

After a block or so, Jean realized that the angry man wasn’t to be deterred from his stolid march down towards the Court of Honor. The Frenchman had hoped to find a beer stall or some such and offer the man a drink as a peace offering. Jean had yet to meet a soldier that wasn’t thirsty for intoxicants. Yet luck wasn’t with Jean-Claude, and he gave up any attempt to engage the man in a conversation when the soldier showed undue interest in a parasol shop!?!? Shrugging, Jean went back towards Reverend Orville’s tent. Perhaps he’d have another chance at conversation with his duo of pursuers at a later date. He just prayed the soldier hadn’t been looking to Jean for amorous intent. Though Jean-Claude had nothing against such men, his personal tastes were closer to the ladies he’d met when all this curious afternoon’s events began.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Sep 13, 2017 5:31 pm

Awesome! Thanks! This really helps!

Edit to the over all game. The General is General Alcide Rodin, and he is French, not German or English. Completely my mistake, and I should have remembered since it makes far more sense for him to be French in the over all diplomatic scheme of things.

I ended up choosing his name at pretty much random, so if there is such a general of that name in actual history, its completely by accident on my part.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Glad to help...Perhaps another thread for the description of each character? Both in civvies and in costume might be of assistance in visualizing each other?

Treebore wrote:Edit to the over all game. The General is General Alcide Rodin, and he is French, not German or English. Completely my mistake, and I should have remembered since it makes far more sense for him to be French in the over all diplomatic scheme of things.

In that case, Jean-Claude might've been interested in hearing him talk...if possible.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Mon Sep 25, 2017 10:41 pm

Tired of the smell of the Stock Yards, and looking to satisfy his curiosity at the news of the fair down in Jackson Park, Liam made his way South and East toward the Lake. It would be cooler there anyway. After milling about, sampling food and drink from a half dozen booths, he felt a strange sense of unease. Looking about he noticed a vaguely familiar face. A chance meeting? What was he doing here? Intrigued, this certainly gave some new hope to the day. Catching up briefly, the discussion lead to business... and an offer of "employment".

With no time to waste, his companion nudged him toward a small European in a fancy suit. Catching the play immediately, Liam blended with the crowd and set his sights on the mark.

Picking him up easily, Liam trailed at what he deemed was a safe distance. Following into an alleyway, his man had disappeared. Moving slowly through the dark corridor, he made it to the end without seeing another soul. Puzzled, he looked back in time to see his quarry tip his hat and flash a quick grin...

Shaking his head in disgust, he moved back the way he came, angry and disappointed. He was better than this; was he losing his touch? Too much time in the saloon and not enough action must be making him rusty. He made his way back through the crowd and toward the safe house. Roger approached, and knowingly just shook his head. Things have certainly taken a turn for the unexpected.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Sep 27, 2017 9:40 pm

Jacque Frost at the Fair part 3Jean-Claude sat alone in his little flat near Jackson Park, and stared out the window to the street below. He wondered if it was worth it. Not the apartment, Doctor Holmes was quite reasonable on the rates. No, it was due to the Frenchman’s intention to speak with General Alcide Rodin tomorrow.

Thinking of his old friend Alcide took Jean-Claude into reverie, as such thoughts often did. When you looked thirty, but have lived near a century memories have a tendency to monopolize your time.

They’d met during the Franco-Prussian War. Jean-Claude had created a fake identity to enlist and fight once again against the Prussians and their German allies. He and Alcide fought side by side, trying to keep some Prussian Ulans away from the French soldiers fumbling with that damned Mitrailleuse. Which nobody there knew how to fire. Damned military secrecy! What was the point of having a secret weapon if nobody knew how to use it? They’d nearly died that day, with Jean-Claude taking a bullet to the side. Which healed up, naturally…like most of his wounds. Given enough time they healed and disappeared. It was surviving in the first place that seemed to be at issue.

With a truly Gallic shrug, he put his memories of the past away and left the room. Locking his flat up, he went to the streets. A quick hackney cab ride and he was before the Grand Pacific Hotel, where his old wartime friend was living for the duration of his American visit. Riding up one of the new elevators everyone was so enamored of, Jean-Claude quickly found himself sitting and leafing through magazines at one of the foyers on the top floor. So, he waited. And waited. And waited.

The Frenchman was seriously considering using his supernatural powers to freeze the irritatingly vigilant secretary to his chair and proceeding inside directly, when his eye was caught by someone in the hallway. Strangely enough, it was the Irishman who’d tried to follow him at the fair yesterday. Blinking in astonishment, Jean-Claude notice the man was actually trying to get his attention. ‘Is this man following me?’ the elderly young man thought to himself. ‘I do hope this is mere curiosity and nothing he will regret.’ Tossing the magazine to the table, the Frenchmen stood and entered the hallway. He formally introduced himself to the man, who in turn introduced himself as “Liam.” They chatted amiably for a while, and though Liam admitted he was a Chicago native he was curiously busy seeing the sites. Much to Jean-Claude’s annoyance, the man didn’t seem to want to admit he had been following the Frenchman. ‘Perhaps its some obscure Chicago tradition?’ was all Jean-Claude could think. The conversation ended, and both men departed in a friendly manner. Returning to the foyer, Jean-Claude was about to tell the secretary to get the general now or suffer the consequences. Yet before he could issue his threats the secretary finally admitted him to his master’s suite.

General Alcide Rodin was a fit man in his 50’s, with thinning grey-black hair and a trim physique. He welcomed Jean-Claude with pleasure and no small amount of astonishment. He kept questioning Jean-Claude over his apparent lack of aging, but Jean-Claude tried to deflect the conversation to more banal subjects. They discussed the war, politics in Europe, Germany’s position as a “Honest Broker” of Europe, and France’s demands for the return of Alsace and Lorraine from the Second Reich. Rodin announced his ideas for an Entente between France and England, and his proposal to settle the Egyptian question once and for all. His designs for the Coptic Christians to act as a client state of both powers seemed unlikely to succeed, at least in Jean-Claude’s opinion. Yet in a world where carpenters come back from the dead, anything is possible!

Alas, the conversation could only go on for so long before the subject of Jean-Claude’s age returned to the fore. The man finally admitted to his old friend that he was in fact a member of the SuperMankind, those strange people with even stranger abilities that have been arising around the world for the past several decades. General Alcide Rodin seemed to take it well, and wished his old comrade fortune and a good evening. Jean-Claude returned the bonhomie and left the hotel. Disdaining a cab this time, Jean-Claude began walking the streets of Chicago. He wans’t paying any particular attention to where he was going, only walking and letting his feet take him where they would, while he thought. It had been uncomfortable telling Alcide Rodin about his abilities. Beyond those racial idiots in the Silver Empire, there were many groups and governments who would pay well for the identity of one of the supernatural beings among civilized folk. He didn’t think Alcide Rodin would abuse that knowledge, though if his Egyptian plan was frustrated enough he might try to call in Jean-Claude to assist in the endeavor. The Frenchman chuckled to himself, seeing his ice-knight’s armor and blade in the burning deserts of Egypt and the Sudan…when he noticed where he was.

It was as if some godlike force had taken control of Jean-Claude’s body and directed him to the door of an innocuous house down one of the residential streets. Shaking himself awake, Jean-Claude turned and began walking away from the house, ignoring the strange compulsion he was feeling to enter the abode. He made the sidewalk before a posh English voice challenged him from the open doorway. Turning, Jacque thought at first he was simply looking at a handsome blonde man with a pronounced English accent, almost aristocratic in his tone and bearing. The man was clearly mad however, making odd accusations and strange conspiracies of men and Turks. Walking closer, Jean-Claude saw the man’s face and hair looked odd. The closer view revealed stiff hair and an almost waxy façade to this curious man’s face and hands. ‘It is almost as if I am speaking to one of Madame Tussauds waxworks!’ Jean-Claude thought with growing amazement. ‘Is this a man at all?’

The Frenchman intended to discuss the situation further, but with a start he saw a roundish packet land between the two conversing men, spitting sparks and emitting an evil hiss. With a speed far greater than Jean-Claude’s, the English…man(?) threw himself onto the package as if he were trying to smother a fire. Jean-Claude was turning towards the street, trying to discern where the attacker was…when the bomb exploded.

When Jean-Claude’s senses returned to him, he had his answer regarding the being whom he had been talking to. Standing up, the figure was now clearly an automaton. His jacket and shirt were ripped away by the explosion, revealing a metallic torso with scorch marks and dents where shrapnel drove into him. Then, the pain hit Jean-Claude. In his life, the Frenchman had been shot, stabbed, pushed from a great height, dropped into pits, and run over by charging horses. He’d never had a bomb explode near him, even if the machine next to him took the brunt of the blast. His light blue shirt and navy blue frock coat were tattered, and cuts and bruises decorated his torso like a shotgun blast. Reeling with pain and dizziness, Jean-Claude did not resist when the automaton and his friends grabbed the wounded man and began hustling him somewhere. The name ‘Alexandria’ was mentioned, but Jean-Claude couldn’t make out the rest of the conversation. That was his last thought before pain and shock took him over, and into the darkness.

With a start, Jean-Claude awoke. He was on some sort of table, with two women above him, though not in the manner his dreams occasionally took him to. They were grim looking, and the well-dressed one seemed to be gritting her teeth in pain. The other lady, a girl really, seemed to be transferring her concern from Jean-Claude to her companion.

“Well, it seems I have died and gone to heaven.” The prone man mumbled. “There are certainly angels here…” He looked down at his ruined clothes and continued. “Alas, I am poorly dressed for the occasion. Merde!”

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Sep 28, 2017 2:53 am

Kelish Abdi ebin Keki – the oldest son of a previous Vizier of the onetime great, and currently sick and declining sick man of Europe , the Ottoman Turkish Empire – sat in a café, surrounded by hookah smoke (and Hashish smoke further in the back rooms), sipping chi listening to his younger brothers and cousins plot, plan and complain about the last 8 months. The 8 months that his father, and leader of one of the 12 most important families in the Turkish Empire, was driven insane and left as a babbling scream shell of the man he once was.

A servant brought a silver tray with more chi and tea, and a note. Kelish, as the new leader of the family – with significantly less influence and political power as his father – took the first cup and held out his hand for the servant boy to hand him the note.

“Allah be praise, Allah be merciful, we are fortunate those English dogs are dis loyal to their own. A servant of his honorable (with more than a little sarcasm tinged the word honorable) Redcliff – the previous English Ambassador to the Turks – has sold us a name and a city, and he sold it for one third of the price we would have paid. Fortunate they are disloyal and easily bought. Roger Mosby, sent from England to America 2 months ago and now in Chicago.”

“I believe I heard whispered in the halls that there are faithful servants of Sultan Hamid II recently dispatched to Chicago” interjected a younger nephew, placed into the sultan’s court to hear those whispers.

“Allah be praised Allah is gracious, see if any of them would favor us with punishing Mosby for the affront he did to our honored father”

***

Roger Mosby /Scima sent the coded telegraphs to … and went back to the safe house. Time to plan. This will be no place for the automaton, this will take finesse and less obvious more undercover skills than Galahad possessed. However, this is no job for one person, time for Liam to earn the Queen’s own gold.

The British spy and the American-Irish prior Marine headed to the hotel that General Alcide Rodin, the French General they were ordered to kill – an order more than likely to be ignored – was living and working in. To Mosby’s surprise there sat the Frenchman in Blue. A quick nod to Liam …

The Irishman passed by the door just right to catch the Frenchman’s eye. The Frenchman couldn’t resist, he takes the bait and approaches the Irishman. A quick conversation and now Liam – and from Liam to Roger – know the Frenchman’s name Jean Claude, and he has admitted to being a soldier (from his bearing and the fact he associates with the General Rodin he must be an officer).

Soon enough, Roger notices 2 men – Mediterranean, no … Middle Eastern possibly … Turkish, yes Turkish – pretending to be people that should be there, but just didn’t quite fit in. Spies .. One reading a paper but watching the General’s door more reading, the other cleaning and dusting the same place the previous bell hop had been cleaning … later, Liam pointed out the previous 2 people had also been Turkish spies.

Eventually, the General’s secretary called Jean. Roger slips back into the shadow, and allows it to envelope him. Walking through the shadows, eventually, Scima was hidden in a shadow filled closet listening to the 2 French officers … talking like old friend s … sharing war stories … from wars over 30 years in the past (odd to hearing those stories from a Jr Officer who appears to be no older than 25 years old and an aged general) . There is more too Jean, the Frenchman in blue, than Roger expected.

Then the talk became serious, what was the General up to, why would the order come to kill him ???

War is costly, to many young die to much horror … British (God save the Queen) interests and French interests to often collide … lessen tensions by destabilizing the Turks hold on Egypt and set up a government comprised of Coptic Christians – Supported by both the English and French – Roger/Scima smiles at the thought of that …

Before stepping back into the shadow, Scima pens a quick note – Beware, you are watched by Turks even now – but then spills the ink pot onto himself. With the stain there is no way to leave the shadow while in the hotel without drawing attention.

Liam hears a whispered ‘Master Liam, if you are quite ready, I will meet you across the way’ from the shadow behind him.

The 2 make their way back to the safe house, and quickly briefs Galahad and his maker on what was seen and heard.

Then, Roger notices Jean walking down the road toward the safe house . “Bloody hell, Liam, ready your pistol” Before the sentence is finished, shadows swallow Scima and he walks the shadow realm out into the alley.

The Frenchman hesitates in the street, but then Galahad flings the door to the safe house, and he begins yelling at Jean … the safe house is no longer safe …

As Jean approaches the house and walks up the door step, a grenade bunces from nowhere to the feet of Jean and the construct. Sicma screams Grenade and steps from the shadow searching for the attacker.

Galahad drops sown on the explosive taking the force of the explosion, but the explosive was powerful enough to severely wound the Frenchman.

After ensuring there was no attackers and no other bombs were being tossed, Scima shadow walks into the not-so-safe house. “Liam, out the back, make sure it is safe, Watchmaker stay behind him. Galahad, can you help him move … Go, 2 blocks to the south, 3 blocks to the east. There is surgeon’s house, go”

Scima steps back into the shadows and checks the area around the house and in the alley. Stepping into the light ahead of the group and makes sure there are no ambushers.

As the group rounded the corner in front of the surgeon’s house, Scima steps into the shadow and runs ahead, stepping from the shadow at the door step, banging on the door.

A lady, she is familiar, where have I seen her before … opens the door.

“Miss, I beg your pardon, and do not wish to be rude, but there has been an accident, an explosion, and a man’s legs are badly injured. I have heard the master of the house is a skilled surgeon. I will pay all the cost for his services”

The miss – she is so familiar – looks over the British spy’s shoulder and sees the 4 hurrying down the road, turns to ring a bell, and hurries to the road toward the injured. Scima follows her, now taking a moment to make sure all is still safe … 3 people in the area, half-heartedly watching – not spies, not thugs, photographers / reporters … how odd photographers / reporters …

Then poof, a blue furry demon steps out of a cloud of brimstone smoke “Bloody Hell” as Scima reaches for his pistol in his coat pocket. However, before he can pull the weapon the demon begins to talk to the miss of the house.

Soon the injured are in tow and into the surgeon’s basement operating room. From the stairs comes the Dr and followed by a slip of a lass – she to is familiar … wait … the healer from the fair, and the rich miss that helped her off the stage.

Surprising the Dr and the 2 misses talk, was hands and the 2 ladies reach down and touch the Frenchman. No surgeon’s tools no medicines, just holding the Frenchman

“Bloody Hell yet again bloody hell” as the shrapnel works its way out of the injured legs and the wounds close themselves.

The British noble/spy pulls out a silver dollar handing it to the Irishman “I would have lost that bet, I was sure they were actors and charlatans”

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Sep 28, 2017 3:06 am

DMMike wrote:Jacque Frost at the Fair part 3

...

“Well, it seems I have died and gone to heaven.” The prone man mumbled. “There are certainly angels here…” He looked down at his ruined clothes and continued. “Alas, I am poorly dressed for the occasion. Merde!”

Nice ... perfect ending !!!!

Great write up

Treebore wrote:"It was as if some godlike force had taken control of Jean-Claude’s body and directed him to the door of an innocuous house down one of the residential streets. "

Ha ... Some god like force had taken control ... I don't remember that part of the game ...

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Thu Sep 28, 2017 5:49 pm

Lurker wrote:

DMMike wrote:Jacque Frost at the Fair part 3

...

“Well, it seems I have died and gone to heaven.” The prone man mumbled. “There are certainly angels here…” He looked down at his ruined clothes and continued. “Alas, I am poorly dressed for the occasion. Merde!”

Nice ... perfect ending !!!!

Great write up

I know that wasn't the technical ending (since I wasn't there) but it was too funny for me to resist.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Tue Oct 10, 2017 7:35 am

It has been a few days since I last felt the need to sort out my thoughts on paper, but given the events of the afternoon I felt it was necessary to decide what to do. Last night I had devised a plan of treatment for Faith's spinal condition. It would be painful and lengthy, with the initial focus being on fusing her lower spine so that further damage or paralysis would not occur. Of course, it would be painful to do, but I felt it was important to give her the option for treatment, and perhaps, if we could then devise a way to do this safely surgically it would mean that there could be thousands of lives improved by such a procedure in the future.

I will confess, however, I was surprised at how quickly and resolutely she agreed to the procedure. She even suggested that with her own abilities that the procedure could potentially be done more swiftly and with less burden to me. I was flattered of course but concerned about the stress it would cause her. She was determined though, and stated that she felt it was important to feel the procedure being done so she could understand her future patients better. I confess, my first reaction was to discourage her, but when I looked to my Father I saw a slight smile on his face as he gazed upon Faith. I wondered why such a thing would be pleasing to him, until I realized that I had often been in Faith's shoes in similar discussions through the years. How stunning it was to realize that I was replaying such a familiar scene in my life- this time from my Fathers perspective. I was so caught up in my own desire to protect and shelter another from pain that I had begun to warn against the very decisions I had fought to be able to make for myself.

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and told Faith that I would respect her wishes and pursue the treatment with her assistance. How easy it can be to disregard someone else's free will out of a misplaced sense of mercy. I had never felt like my Father was an enemy to me through my years of trying to convince him to let me help with his medical practice, but I think that perhaps I understand him better now than I have in the past.

The procedure itself was... terrible. It was successful, but the sensations of breaking bone and arranging it were excruciating. Both Faith and I couldn't help but scream, Faith even begged to stop, but I had to be a bit merciless. Once I had begun it would have been much worse to stop before the procedure was done. I continued, and though it took only 20 seconds or so, it seemed like ages. Once the bones were in place I let Faith know and within a few moments she had fused all of them together, I helped her as much as I could but her ability to heal trauma is much greater than mine- she is a wonder. Understandably, after such an ordeal Faith was exhausted and went to rest, her friend Damon helping her to her room.

I, of course, went to detail the procedure in my fathers surgery book as I recovered from the phantom pains such activities always cause me. I did not have much time to recoup before a knock on the door of my home echoed through the house. When I answered I was greeted by a man in dark clothes and easily forgotten features. He hurriedly informed me in a English accent that someone had been injured by a bomb and were being brought from down the street by some other men. I rang the bell for my Father to signal him to come down stairs and walked out to assist with carrying the injured man the rest of the way to the office section of our home. Usually we only use it for our more wealthy guests, but the English man had insisted that expense was of no concern as we transported the wounded. Faith quickly arrived shortly after we had placed the poor man on a gurney, his legs seemed the most injured and his blue suit pants would obviously be unrecoverable. Luckily the rest of him and his ensemble were in good repair.

Normally, my father and I would wait for privacy to begin surgery, but once Faith arrived it seemed to galvanize us into action. She laid her hands on the man in blue and began to heal him, I immediately used my own gifts to remove any remaining shrapnel form his wounds before they could close and smoothed over the injuries, removing the chance of scars. I was so focused I didn't even react to the sensation of his injuries. However, I also failed to react in time to the fact that I had just used my gift in front of other people, in such a way it was obviously not all Faith this time. I confess, I let my heart feel fear in that moment of realization.

As I was processing my horror at the breach in my Father and I's carefully crafted facade the man in blue awoke. It became clear as soon as he spoke that he was french, he mused aloud that he must have died and gone to heaven. I immediately began cleaning the bloodied sheets as the Frenchman gained his bearings. The darkly dressed man introduced himself as Roger Mosby, and quickly explained to the Frenchman, Jean-Claude, that Faith and I had healed his wounds. I couldn't help but clench my jaw at him saying such a thing so easily after so many years of me trying to keep it secret.

"Faith did most of the work, I only helped a bit." I said after a moment, seizing on the opportunity to give Faith recognition for her ability. It was true after all, and I wanted Faith to feel pride in her gifts, unlike me, she had lived out in the open as a Faith Healer and recognition of her skills would be far less damaging. Roger then quickly introduced the rest of us to his intimidating sandy haired compatriot Liam Burke, as well as a masterfully craft automaton Galahad, and the man who had created Galahad. Liam also quickly inquired to me as to whether he could have the services of Damon, as he had seen him use his abilities during the rush to get Jean-Claude into the office and was very impressed.

"He will have to answer that for himself," I replied, a bit disappointed but not surprised by the dismissal of Damon's autonomy. "He is his own being." After a final comment about making sure to mention how much they would pay Damon for his efforts I went to assist Galahads creator with his repairs, as Galahad apparently jumped onto the explosive that had injured Jean -Claude to try and protect everyone. Though I do not know too much about engineering besides what devices are used in medicine I have a superb memory, and after a quick run down of the tools I was able to hand whatever the Doctor needed to him. It was a welcome distraction and helped me ease the shaking in my hands and the phantom aches in my legs.

There was discussion as to what to do about the explosion and the ones who caused it, and various other aspects of the situation that had brought them all here, the details of which I do not feel it would be right to write of here. I spoke once or twice during it, but usually ended up quietly scolding myself afterwards for contributing to such a discussion. It was perhaps already too late but I tried to remind myself that maybe if I just focused on getting them what they needed they would just carry on to the next objective afterwards and forget about me until they needed healed again. Though my curiosity also urged me to take part as well just for the adventure. I curse my traitorous heart for it's folly.

It became apparent that they would need to use the underground network of tunnels to move around the city without being noticed by the enemies they had escaped previously. Luckily for them, I know the tunnels extremely well and was only too happy to help them resolve this issue so that perhaps they could move on to the next thing. Though I feel that too is a lie. It is not often that men respect my medical knowledge, let alone without mocking me. Roger mentioned during the discussion that Faith and I did not seem like the wilting lilies other women were, and if he had not said it with such blatant approval in his tone I would have been quick to take offense. As it was, it soothed my fearful heart a bit that such a thing was not grotesque to him. I did make sure to tell him to be careful speaking to Chicago women like that though, they would easily take offense to being compared to anything other than flowers.

Jean-Claude mentioned that before we set off through the tunnels and into public that he would need new pants. My father grinned and took the opportunity to joke with the man for a few minutes before I came with a pair of my fathers old pants. I noted Jean-Claude was a bit thicker in the waist than my father so I was forced to provide a pair that had been modified to fit someone of wider hips. I informed Jean-Claude that it was an old pair and fashion, but that they should work for the time being. He accepted the pants and changed, I turned away to give him privacy and saw Roger staring back in Jean-Claude's direction with a bit too much intensity to be comfortable with. I flushed a little as I wondered if he was a poorly dressed dandy of some sort.

Once everyone was ready I retrieved a lantern and led them through the tunnels. I explained a bit more about the underground as we traveled, letting them know the different ways it was used, and how it could benefit them. We fell silent after a bit and I focused purely on navigating them until Mr. Mosby once more approached me and spoke in a hushed tone.

"Why are Jean-Claudes new pants modified to fit a woman?"

My hand clenched tightly on the lantern, equal parts afraid and enraged. Women wearing men's clothes was a crime, and such an accusation could easily cause a scandal. Who was this man that he pursued and revealed my secrets so easily?! "I do not believe that is a subject that a woman of my station should discuss." I replied a bit coldly, trying to keep my gaze ahead lest this wicked mans probing eyes discern more secrets from me. Thankfully he didn't question me further, but I wondered if I saw him smile from the edge of my periphery.

Once at the square they arranged for Faith and I to be escorted properly by Liam. In case something went wrong with their little operation they would need me to lead them back through the underground. Roger asked if I knew how to keep myself hidden in the square.

"Hide? There is no reason to hide, I am a lady! I belong in the square, I even have a man escorting my friend and I." I took Faith's arm and began to lead her toward a nearby cafe that specialized in tea. "And we are here to drink some tea and indulge in pastries."

Before we got too far away for secrecy I asked one last question, "How long should we wait for you before assuming things went awry?" Roger gave a smile that looked more like a grimace.

"I have a feeling if things go wrong you'll be able to notice it pretty easily." He replied. Galahad extended mechanical wings sculpted to look like those of an angel and took to the sky behind him. It was surprising how few people noticed him as he traveled to the roof of the largest hotel in the square. Jean-Claude and Roger were quick to disappear into the crowd toward the same building, and Damon just vanished from my gaze in an instant.

I busied myself with ordering and paying for some delights for Faith and Liam to experience. Liam looked like a man who had lived a tough life, and the thought of giving him the chance to enjoy delicate pastries and fragrant teas amused me. I made sure Faith and he knew the etiquette required to blend in, but when the order arrived Faith was immediately entranced by the wonderful scent of Bergamot in her beverage and didn't make any move to drink it, instead just focusing on the aroma. I couldn't help but smile as I watched Liam struggle to handle the tea cup properly with his large hands.

The excitement dimmed down until there was only the low chatter of the passerby, and I sipped my tea while watching the hotel and Liam focusing intently on trying to make his pinky finger stick out from the tea cup properly. A low scream broke out from across the square as Galahad suddenly burst out the top window of the hotel and flew upwards carrying the two men. Doubtlessly the screaming was coming from one of them as Galahad climbed higher and higher into the air, one of his hostages dropping a gun onto the ground below. I took one last sip of my tea before going to retrieve the lost firearm so a passerby or some child wouldn't find it.

"Mr. Mosby was definitely right, it IS pretty easy to notice when things go south." I murmured.

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Tue Oct 10, 2017 9:30 am

Treebore mentioned that he was looking for some game content so I thought I would add a little bit. I know some of you have been waiting eagerly for some written record of Galahad's deep thoughts. So, without further ado, here is a snippet from the reports of Galahad the construct:

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Tue Oct 10, 2017 9:31 am

Ok. Ok. Here is the real report

Professor, as you requested, I will post some of my experiences so you may analyse how I store my memories. I know that you intend this exercise to humanize me, but we both know that can never be. I am but a machine, the only question we are now concerned with is what kind of machine shall I be?

As usual, the Department has sent me on a mission of violence, expecting me to only concern myself with the how and not with the why. They still believe me to be the brain in a box of so long ago.

My counterpart from the other branch is doing excellent work on the investigation side, and he has managed to find some local help, some of whom have proved to be rather unusual. I do not know if any pose a danger to HM but they do bear watching

Recently, a bomb was dropped at one of our safe houses. I suffered some damage. Further investigation has indicated that these bombers (Mohammedans) might also be targeting the mission objective. Further investigation is warranted

I was also able to test the effectiveness of the wings in a tight urban environment while laden with approximately 355 pounds of reluctant cargo. Results were promising

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Tue Oct 10, 2017 9:34 am

And here is a brief snippet from a passerby.

Father McGarrity was troubled, and when he was troubled, he took Napoleon for a walk. The bulldog was always eager for a chance to amble through his territory, serenely nodding to the obeisance of the local folks and local mutts. Occasionally, he would pause to "mark" a post or if one wasn't careful, a trouser leg.

While they walked, the priest was able to reflect on what was troubling him. Mrs Smith had lost her third child in as many years. He had prayed for the child every moment he could spare. The congregation had prayed for the child. And yet...

"Who is this little fella?" asked a young woman, her blue eyes twinkling. While she sat with her coffee, she twirled a parasol over her head to ward off the sun. The twirling had caught the attention of Napoleon.

"Napoleon". McGarrity replied distractedly

"Oh, forgive me your Majesty." she said with a mock curtsy to the bulldog. "The first or the third?" she asked with a smile

"The dog", he replied, returning her smile. Her grin was infectious and it did lighten his mood. But in truth he was still troubled by the child's death. He was in no way experiencing a crisis of faith, but he had reached a low ebb. If only the Lord could show him a clear sign, he thought, he would know that his life's work was not in vain

Crash!

"Aiieeeeee!"

The priest looked up to see a winged angel in full flight ascending to the heavens, two rascals in his mighty grip, one rascal dropping something from his terrified hands as he flew.

"Now an angel from heaven appeared to Him, strengthening Him." muttered McGarrity, falling back on quoting St. Luke's verse to explain what his eyes could only look on in amazement

Few others seemed to have noticed anything. After a moment, he looked back down to find Napoleon sniffing at the fallen object which looked to be a pistol of some kind. Although now that McGarrity looked, the bulldog was also eyeing the fruit vendor's trouser leg with a speculative glint. He hastily pulled on the leash and walked away, but with a new vigor in his stride

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Oct 11, 2017 1:22 am

Aramis wrote:Treebore mentioned that he was looking for some game content so I thought I would add a little bit. I know some of you have been waiting eagerly for some written record of Galahad's deep thoughts. So, without further ado, here is a snippet from the reports of Galahad the construct:

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Re: Tree’s Monday Night Ne’er-do-Well’s Victorious Game

Wed Oct 11, 2017 7:47 pm

The Frenchman walked through the damp miasma of earth, rusting steel, and mildew as the group of unusual people he was with continued down the tunnel. Rails for a small train line paralleled the walkway, leaving Jean-Claude only a small pathway to avoid tripping on their iron frames. How bizarre this day had become! He thought back to his regaining consciousness in the Matthews home.

He awoke in a surgery, under the scrutiny of several unusual people. The several men and two ladies in the room were quite a collection of curiosities. From the Irishman Liam, to the now-motionless automaton, to the healing ladies and the fanged blue-furred gentleman; all was quite in an uproar. Fortunately the Englishman took charge, making introductions and informing one and all about a threat to my friend Alcide Rodin. The general was apparently to be the target of Ottoman Turkish assassins! Jean-Claude was surprised only that they’d try here, at the world exposition. If things went awry for the killers it would be difficult for the Sublime Court in Constantinople to avoid blame. Still, this Egyptian plan of Rodin’s certainly was a threat to Turkish influence in the Nile delta so perhaps this was an act of desperation.

However, the greater crisis was Jean-Claude’s lack of suitable pants. Oh his trousers were fine from the knees up, it was below the knees that his attire was shredded. A quick conversation (and the dubious wit of Dr. Matthews) resolved in Jean’s wearing a pair of trousers that seemed curiously cut; more room in the hips and tighter in the legs. ‘Oh well.’ Jean-Claude thought dismissively. ‘At least they’re not workers overalls.’

Once again Jean-Claude found himself in reverie, and he broke free of it to consider his options. The young woman before him Alexandra Matthews was illuminated by an oil lantern she was carrying, and the Englishman Roger beside her seemed to occasionally fade into a shadow or dark spot; returning to sight as the lantern rekindled its wick. She had interesting powers to heal, and from the conversations Jean-Claude had gathered that in order to work her magic she had to take on the injury of the person she was helping. At least for a few minutes that is, when the wounds would fade into memories. He wondered if the reverse was true. Could she, being actually injured herself, heal herself by transferring that injury to someone else? That would be…disturbing. It would also be quite effective, though she would have to allow herself to be injured in the first place. Not a promising way to injure an enemy in combat, especially if the attempt was fatal in the first moment. Perhaps she could absorb the injury of a friend, then transfer that injury to a foe? She would bear watching, as such powers could be quite dangerous.

Eventually they emerged from a small doorway into the busy city square facing the downtown hotels of Chicago. The Grand Pacific was within sight, and as the group emerged plans were discussed as to how to stop the potential assassination of General Alcide Rodin. Jean-Claude listened and didn’t suggest anything to the arguing men around him. The Knight of Ice wanted to hear how they worked together, and what foibles each had before they engaged in combat. Eventually the plan was decided: Galahad and the blue-furred Damian would move to the roof and see what they could discover, while Jean-Claude and Roger would move up the glacially slow elevator to the General’s suite of rooms on the 10th floor. Liam would stay with Miss Matthews and Miss Faith at the street, possibly a reserve if needed.

“How will we know if any trouble develops?” The stylish young woman asked. It was a valid point, and Jean-Claude replied with a small smile “Mademoiselle, if trouble develops…you will know simply by watching the hotel. Bombs and gunfire are quite distinctive.” His own powers were also distinctive as well, but he was waiting for the right moment to take on his Jacque Frost armor and weapons.

With that, the British agent of shadows and the Gallic chevalier of cold entered the hotel lobby and were allowed on the elevator. Which was even slower than Jean-Claude remembered. So, the two men waited while the silent elevator man stood facing the gates, and they moved upward to whatever awaited them.